


Run the Gauntlet

by olivieblake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Post-War, Renaissance Faires, So yeah, can you believe that's an established tag?, do we all love renaissance faires???, for reference this renaissance faire is MAGICAL, get in wenches we're going jousting, yes of course we do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 00:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21498775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivieblake/pseuds/olivieblake
Summary: When the Ministry of Magic announces a renaissance faire to benefit families affected by the war, everyone agrees it's probably a stupid idea—except for Draco, who has amends to make, and Hermione, who has an ex to avoid. Seeing as artisans and performers don't interact, they're convinced it won't be a problem. Much to their joint dismay, fate intervenes to prove them wrong.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 84
Kudos: 650
Collections: D/Hr Advent 2019





	Run the Gauntlet

**_1 December 1998_ **

“Are you sure about this?” asked Harry, dodging the exuberance of her packing charm. “Because if you’re still worried about seeing Ron—”

“I’m not,” said Hermione, with a commendable absence of hysterics and nary a weaponized bird in sight. “But Hagrid needs help, and anyway it’s for the Ministry, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” echoed Harry, doubtful. “I don’t see how some sort of wizarding circus—”

“Magical Renaissance Faire,” corrected Hermione.

“Fine, that—how is it _possibly_ something you’re doing for the Ministry?”

The room abruptly fell still, the charm’s work completed. All that remained was an empty wardrobe, the clothes now packed neatly in the case, and a framed picture beside the bed that Hermione fully intended to leave behind.

“The proceeds go to families affected by the war,” she said, nearly closing the suitcase on Harry’s unsuspecting fingers. “It’s philanthropic.” A distraction, more likely, but given the fallout since the Battle of Hogwarts in May, she wasn’t the only one who needed some of that these days.

“But it’s not as if you loved Care of Magical Creatures,” Harry said, unconvinced. “And you were particularly opposed to riding Buckbeak, as I recall.”

“Witherwings,” Hermione corrected, “and I won’t be _riding_ him, will I? I’ll just be helping Hagrid. It’ll be quiet; peaceful, even.” Barring that, it was the one place she wouldn’t run into anyone she knew, Weasley or otherwise.

“I suppose,” Harry grudgingly conceded, “but still, wouldn’t you rather spend your holiday with family? Or with friends, at least?”

Hermione snapped the suitcase shut, considering it for a moment.

“No,” she determined, levitating the case toward the stairs.

* * *

**_2 December 1998_ **

“This is quite an odd thing you’ve done,” remarked Theo, glancing around the inside of Draco’s stall. “You do know that, don’t you? Not exactly what I had in mind when you suggested a holiday getting sauced with the lads.”

“Again, that’s not remotely what I said,” Draco reminded him, “and furthermore, you’re under no obligation to stay.”

Theo gave a perfunctory scoff. “You think the Ministry can arrange a festival the likes of this”—here, the flutter of a madman’s fingers—“and I’ll simply stay at home, tending your peacocks and counting my galleons? Sir, you must be positively daft,” retorted Theo, adding loftily, “I’ve already arranged to play the role of bard.”

Magnificent. “If you speak to me in verse, I’ll kill you,” warned Draco.

“Historically? Doubtful,” Theo replied. “Anyway, what’s all this about?” he prompted, flicking a set of nimble fingers against one of Draco’s many carefully sculpted jars. “A bit of an odd pastime for someone with your murderous proclivities, don’t you think?”

In actuality, it was simple: Draco was good at potions, and therefore adept at artisan candles. Had he intended to invest so much time recreating the scent of figgy pudding, or the precise crispness of a noble evergreen? No, but at least alongside bottled nostalgia came the added potency of flame. Besides, the Ministry was keeping him out of Azkaban in exchange for good behavior. (Participation in this, their pet project, was rather heavily implied.)

“Artisans don’t interact with performers,” Draco reminded Theo, swatting his hand away from the candle smelling of butterbeer and childhood; not Draco’s _own_ childhood, of course, given the zealous nature of his recently incarcerated parents and the drafty opulence of his extravagant manor house, but someone without his history of violence. Preferably someone with a compulsive lust for lumination and a surplus of galleons to match.

“So you’re just going to hide out here until the faire’s over?” asked Theo doubtfully, sniffing the candle Draco would never admit to having made with him in mind. (Scent: leather, wafting smoke, a faint hint of wrongdoing, and freesias.)

“Yes,” said Draco, snatching the candle back and replacing it on the shelf. “I’ll just sit right here until the whole thing’s passed me by.”

* * *

**_5 December 1998_ **

“No,” said Hermione, backing away. “No, absolutely not—”

“Granger, is that you?” called a voice, as Hermione leapt at the distraction. Behind her, Lavender Brown—breastily meandering in full wench’s garb—wandered up to the creature enclosure with Parvati Patil, who was wearing something of a gypsy costume she may well have snatched from Professor Trelawney’s private collection. “I had no idea you were doing the faire, too,” exclaimed Lavender, as Hermione winced: _too._

“What’s this?” asked Parvati, observing the altercation Hermione had just been having with one of Hagrid’s dodgy caretakers. “Is he,” she began, and then dropped her voice, leaning in. “Is he _bothering_ you?”

“What? No, no, nothing like that,” Hermione said, flustered. “It’s just… Angelina was going to ride Bu- I mean, Witherwings, and she was supposed to be queen of the, um”—Christ, this was utterly ridiculous—“the joust, but… _Anyway_ ,” Hermione managed to choke with dismay, “even if I _could_ do it, her costume would never fit, plus it’s far too last minute to rehearse, so—”

“Let me see your palm?” prompted Parvati, reaching none-too-gently for Hermione’s hand. “Hm,” she said, half-dragging Hermione closer while Lavender smothered a laugh. “Well, obviously I’d be more accurate with tea leaves—”

“Sure,” muttered Hermione, morosely.

“—but according to this, you’re going to meet someone soon,” continued Parvati, holding fast as Hermione attempted to twist out of reach. “True love’s kiss and all that, and… Ah! A risk,” she declared, holding Hermione’s hand up to her face. “Something new and dangerous.”

Not that Hermione gave any credit to divination whatsoever, but ‘new and dangerous’ was undoubtedly this. Fly on a hippogriff, entertain a crowd? None of that was Hermione’s particular forte. She was more the disappear-into-a-corner, read-a-book-in-silence type of person, and only for Harry’s sake had she ever ventured ‘new and dangerous.’ That was Harry’s arena, not hers, and for a moment her chest tightened with panic, realizing he was no longer there to push her through it.

But it was too late to argue, or would be soon. Already, Lavender had plucked the costume from the caretaker’s hands, holding it up to Hermione’s shoulders and stepping back with a triumphant smile. 

“We can make it work,” she announced, and Hermione winced, finding herself outnumbered.

At least no one she knew would see her fail.

* * *

**_8 December 1998_ **

“Takest thou a break,” suggested Theo. “Thou art not a beast of burden.”

Selling candles was hardly a burden, though Draco had been quietly pleased to discover he had one of the more profitable stands at the faire. (The breeches weren’t exactly ideal, but Theo had said they were fetching, and Theo was rarely wrong.) 

Costumery aside, Draco spent each day nodding politely to potential customers from his magically warmed stall, snacking periodically on turkey legs or whatever tart Theo brought back from his wandering performances and never leaving the comfort of his booth. True, he was occasionally forced to make remarks like, “I think it would be rather unethical for me to sell you a candle containing Amortentia,” or, “I’m so pleased to have captured the essence of your beloved Uncle Boris,” but at night, when the faire was closed, he had enough peace and quiet to replenish his wares.

That day, the most popular candle had been invented the night before: First Yuletide Snow, a mix of crisp air and pine with a distant aroma of chestnuts roasting on an open fire. He shifted aside the Midnight in the Library candle (stale parchment, fresh ink, conspiratorial whispers, and peppermint lip balm) to make room before turning to face Theo, sparing a glance that spoke for itself.

“Oh, come on,” Theo sighed, “aren’t you the least bit curious? I hear whatever performer they’ve got doing the joust is pretty enough. In fact, two _delightfully_ besotted Scots were slurring incomprehensibly about her just this morning,” he reported sagely, strumming an invisible lyre.

“If I go, will you shut up?” asked Draco.

“Probably not,” Theo replied.

“Then forget it,” Draco told him, though of course it was quite a small faire, and after a week of mostly-artisan contentment, he should have known they’d eventually bump into one another.

“Oh,” said the so-called Queen of the Joust. While other women at the faire were mostly dressed as buxom wenches, she wore intricately woven chain mail paired with tight leather breeches and riding boots, a long sword slung around her hips and brass gauntlets fitted cleanly to her forearms. The shield on her arm, bearing the crimson symbol of a lioness, would have been unmistakable enough even if Draco had not recognized her on sight, though of course he had. 

“Granger,” said Draco, gritting his teeth around her name.

Predictably, she looked as displeased to see him as he was to see her.

“Let’s never speak of this again,” she suggested, glowering. There were tight plaits woven into the side of her hair, the rest of her curls cast wildly about her shoulders. “You stay on the artisan side and I’ll stay by the creature enclosure.”

“Yes, good,” agreed Draco stiffly, turning away, but certain things were not so easy to forget.

Like, for example, the way she smelled like roses.

* * *

**_11 December 1998_ **

There was no other way to put it: Hermione took to the joust like a fish to water. For once she felt powerful, unstoppable, and though she had always loved wearing floaty gowns with pretty chiffon, armor felt natural, too. She and the erstwhile Buckbeak were quite a pair, embracing their showmanship like nobody could have expected—Hermione least of all. 

“Nah, I knew ye’d be a natural,” said Hagrid proudly, smacking an enormous hand around her shoulder.

She smiled up at him, rather too breathless to admit the truth: She loved it. She loved every second of performing, from the moment she flew in on Buckbeak to the moment she leapt from his back for her final bow. The knights, drinking mates of Hagrid’s who rode on horses and thestrals, had taken her fraternally under their wing, teaching her how to tilt (with an enchantment’s help) until she could joust successfully on her own. By the second week, she was not only the ceremonial Queen of the Joust, but the star of the whole production.

“Thanks to me,” contributed Lavender, adjusting her ample bosom with a smirk. Hermione rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue. She had thought at first she’d dislike having Lavender and Parvati there on what was supposed to be her solitary holiday, but it was nice having someone to talk to who wasn’t a sweaty, lance-wielding man. 

Draco Malfoy was a less pleasant encounter, but as the days passed without further incident, Hermione soon forgot him entirely. Why think of him at all when she had performances four times a day? She didn’t have the time to be anything but contentedly suited in armor, covered in mud and bathed in her raucous applause.

But of course her little delusion had to end.

“Come here,” hissed Lavender, grabbing Hermione’s arm when she was fetching the knights some afternoon ale. “We need you!”

“For what?” Hermione demanded, but as there was no use fighting Lavender’s iron grip, she let herself be dragged to the center of the faire’s main square. As far as she was concerned, the knights could try their luck being cross with Lavender later.

Parvati was doing her midday divination show before a larger crowd than usual, which explained Lavender’s haste. They were used to performing for ten or fifteen, but this, a much more crowded day than any so far, was a teeming mob of close to fifty. By the looks of it, the audience’s attention was drifting, the crowd’s occupants beginning to glance at their watches and ponder their preferences for butterbeer instead. Hermione must have been the first victim Lavender could find to liven up the show.

“Ladies and gentlemen, here we have a young woman beholden to the whims of fate,” called Parvati, giving Hermione a pleading glance from the stage, “and likewise…” She trailed off, hastily scanning the crowd. “A young man! There he is,” she exhaled with relief. “Someone stop him, please!”

Hermione had just climbed up to the wooden platform when the man in question turned around, grey eyes widening at the sight of her.

“Oh no,” Hermione whispered.

But even Draco Malfoy could not escape Lavender pulling him unceremoniously to the stage.

* * *

**_12 December 1998_ **

“You can’t possibly make us do that ridiculous ceremony every day,” Draco snapped at Parvati, annoyed. “I have a stall to run, things to sell! Why can’t Theo do it?”

“Because for one thing, Nott’s a menace,” replied Parvati, earrings jangling as she adjusted her elaborate headscarf, “and for another, he’s supposed to be performing at the same time across the square.”

“Is he?” asked Hermione, who had woven feathers into the ends of her plaits that day. Now she was a preposterous mix of golden-brown and vibrant scarlet. “I assumed the whole ‘bard’ thing was a joke.”

“Tragically not,” Parvati said, “so it’ll have to be you two, as there’s no point in changing now. Anyway, how hard is it to sit still for a handfasting ceremony?” she prompted, rounding on Draco. “It’s campy. It’s cute. People love a wedding, and they love soulmates even more. Besides, ten minutes to pretend it’s love at first sight will only help you sell candles,” she pointed out, arching a dark brow.

Regrettably, she wasn’t wrong. Those who had recognized Draco from yesterday’s ceremony had immediately rushed to his stall, doubling his daily profits. Inspired by the business, Draco had invented a new candle called Lovers (flower crowns, sage, daydreaming in dew-soaked grass) which sold out by half past noon. 

“Well, I hate it,” he said gruffly. “It’s inconvenient.”

“How so?” asked Parvati.

He had detected a new fragrance from Hermione that day, in addition to rose. Gardenia, like the Malfoy gardens, plus a faint underlying hint of vanilla. Not pastry-bright vanilla, which was artificial, but woody, heady, like bourbon. Like burnt sugar, warm and almost amber, and now, inconveniently, he could not _un_ -associate the smell with her, though he doubted Parvati would accept that as an answer.

“Surely you hate it, too,” Draco insisted, turning to Hermione.

She stared back at him, stone-faced, as if she would say nothing just to punish him.

“Fine,” Draco grumbled, clearly at a loss for options. “But that’s it, then. Ten minutes and nothing more.”

“Splendid,” said Parvati placidly. “Ten minutes and nothing more it is.”

* * *

**_14 December 1998_ **

Much as Hermione hated the handfasting ceremony, it had given her a sort of thrill not to oppose it when Draco expected her to. Let him be the difficult one, the one stuck in his ways. She was the Queen of the Joust now, after all. He was only ten minutes of her day and could no longer harm her with anything he did. He could call her names and mock her blood if he wished to, but for the first time, Hermione was content with who she was. She was comfortable and happy, and could stab him with her sword whenever she liked.

Still, those ten minutes were interminably long.

“As this knot is tied, so are your lives now bound,” was the start of the ceremony as Parvati pretended to pluck them from the faire each day like perfect strangers, mystically promising them to each other before a starry-eyed crowd. “These are the hands that will provide for you, crossing the years of your souls.”

Hermione usually struggled not to fidget. Draco, by contrast, stood perfectly still. The first day, she’d stared at his shoulder (he wore a white shirt, loose and tucked into breeches like most of the artisan vendors, plus a charmed wool cape to keep him warm) until Parvati had reminded them to lock eyes, focusing on their vows. Now Hermione watched his inscrutable face and wondered what he was thinking.

“These are the hands that will hold you through difficult times,” Parvati recited. “These are the hands that will comfort you.”

Hermione twitched at that, unwillingly. She knew it was a show, just like the joust was a show, but still, she prickled with irony. Draco Malfoy, comfort her? Please. 

“Hold still,” he mouthed.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she hissed.

His eyes narrowed, though he didn’t speak again.

“These are the hands that will love you,” said Parvati.

 _Very funny,_ Hermione thought bitterly, resolving to make sure Lavender brought her an extra tankard of ale before her afternoon show.

* * *

**_16 December 1998_ **

“Thou canst possibly love candles this much,” remarked Theo, who wore a voluminous ruff that—quite unjustly, in Draco’s opinion—did not look as ridiculous on him as it should have.

“Is that some sort of accusation?” Draco muttered, wiped a bit of sweat from his brow.

“Yes,” said Theo, pulling his flimsy sword free and adding with a flourish: “J’accuse!”

Draco lazily dodged the tip of the blade, attention still fixed on his cauldron. “Exactly what else would I be doing, pray tell, if not for my work?”

“Why, enjoying the pleasures of the faire, good sir,” replied Theo, sheathing his weapon with obvious disappointment. “Huzzah!, so on and so forth. You never leave your stall, and frankly it’s beginning to irk me. I’m irked,” he repeated, theatrically wounded.

“This is supposed to be punishment, Nott. Community service and all that.”

Theo gave him a look of doubt, but shrugged, growing bored with their daily argument. “Well, suffer away,” he advised, turning to follow a passing faire-goer who was struggling with a foaming tankard. “What, ho!” Theo called, startling them with a limerick about a wizard from Kent whose wand was jauntily bent while Draco returned to his draught, giving it a wafting sniff.

It had worsened, and he growled to himself in frustration. Too floral, maybe? Was there such a thing as excessive gardenia? He considered adding something—possibly something bitter, a kick at the other end of sweet—when a voice behind him startled him into dropping his wand.

“What are you doing?”

By now that voice was unmissable. The artisan booths were distant from the joust enclosure, but the faire was only so vast. He heard it each day, more frequently as the faire increased in popularity. 

“Working,” he said gruffly, bending to retrieve his wand as Hermione stepped into view.

“Yes, I see that,” she said, “but it doesn’t appear to be going well.”

How frightfully discerning. “Yes, well, I’m trying to sort something out,” he muttered.

“What, a smell?” Today she wore a vibrant purple sash across her chain mail. Too vibrant, in his opinion; historically inaccurate, probably, though it looked lush against her complexion. 

But still, she was Queen of the Joust, not _actually_ queen.

“Yes. An ingredient.” Anything to end the conversation.

“Can I help you?”

“No,” he said stiffly, and then stopped, grumpily adding, “Why would you want to?”

“I don’t know.” She turned away. “Never mind.”

“Wait—”

She paused, surprised, and he kicked himself. Now he’d have to say something. 

“I,” he began, and she stared at him.

It was hard to believe this was the same girl people came from miles around the countryside to see. Sure, the rest of the faire was certainly doing well—Draco was selling out of his candles each day without fail—but _she_ was the one people waited by the lineful, by the crowdful, just to catch a glimpse of. 

Even across the grounds, he could hear the applause that meant she was beloved. Adored.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she frowned.

“For what?”

“I—” No point stopping now. “For everything, I suppose.”

“Oh.” 

She glanced at her boots, dirtied with mud, and it occurred to him: cedarwood. Something earthy. 

“Well, alright,” she managed insincerely, or half-sincerely. She glanced up at him with something he guessed to be defiance, which had recently turned to resignation. 

Then she turned and walked away.

* * *

**_19 December 1998_ **

Hermione gave Buckbeak’s neck a pat and leapt down, wiping sweat from her brow. They had increased the show to nearly every hour, rendering each day increasingly more exhausting. Not that she minded; Buckbeak did most of the work, and anyway, it was such a marvelous change of pace to be someone who was not strictly herself. The Queen of the Joust had not fought in wars or broken up with her boyfriend. She simply smiled and performed, and people loved her for it. 

“Hey,” called one of the newly-hired relief knights, jogging over. He was kilted and mopping sweat from his chest with his discarded shirt, and Hermione preemptively winced. 

_He’s going to ask you out,_ Lavender had ruled the day prior, to which Hermione had scoffed. (Was she psychic now along with Parvati? No, sniffed Lavender, just very good with people.)

“I was wondering,” said the knight, a friend of Charlie Weasley’s from Hogwarts that Hermione was too young to have known. “If you aren’t busy tonight—”

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy,” said Hermione. “Just a bit tired.”

“Right,” he said, and fumbled a smile. “See you, then!”

Hermione turned with an inward sigh as he hurried away, watching him go. She supposed he could have been handsome, if rugged and overly muscled were her sort of thing. Unfortunately it wasn’t, despite Lavender’s pleas to liven up their time at the faire with details of Jimmy’s abs (a reprieve from Theo’s poetry about some randy lad from Brighton).

“What _is_ your thing, Granger?” Lavender demanded, though of course Hermione didn’t know. “I thought with Ron it was just the history and all that.”

It was. But history was important to Hermione, hence the faire.

She reached for a towel, wiping at the mud on her boots. That particular show had left her with an odd, unsettled sort of feeling, perhaps because she had registered an unexpected face in the crowd. She didn’t usually spot individuals—the audience was usually too large to make out faces—but this one had been remarkable for its rare expression of contemplation, or possibly even surprise.

Draco had slipped away before she could say anything, of course. She wondered if he had liked it, or if he recognized Buckbeak. What had he been doing there, anyway? 

She slid her plait to one shoulder. Today it was woven with lilies, which tickled her nose.

Not that it mattered what Draco Malfoy thought, but she supposed she could always go ask him.

* * *

**_20 December 1998_ **

“What is this one?”

She was reaching for one of the candles behind the small table where he kept the extra wicks, incurably nosy. He moved to stop her, nearly dropping the galleons he’d just been handed.

“No don’t, Granger, it’s not for sale—”

Too late. She had her nose buried in it, frowning slightly. “This is…” 

She eyed him carefully for a moment, looking distracted, and then set the candle back where she found it. He exhaled a sigh of relief.

“What did you think of the show?” she asked tangentially, wandering around his stall with one hand on her sword. He watched her sniff at the Great Hall candle, which smelled mostly like the hearth during banquets. 

“It was interesting,” Draco said. She picked up the Hogsmeade candle, which smelled like toffee and baking pies, and glanced over her shoulder at him, expectant. “Well, I always thought you were more Ravenclaw than Gryffindor,” he managed to half-explain. “Turns out I was wrong.”

“Oh.” She set the candle down. “Right, well. Makes sense.”

“It’s not an insult,” he hurried to add, and she shrugged.

“No, I know.” She stepped away, giving his shop a last scrutinizing look. “Well, just thought I’d return the favor. Since you came to see my show, that is.”

“Noted.” He suddenly became very conscious of one label facing slightly to the side and adjusted it covertly. “Bye, then.”

“Bye,” she replied, and turned away, departing.

In Hermione’s absence, Theo marched up, hands full with an actual lyre this time. He was strumming without purpose or talent, giving Draco a look of knowing judgment.

“What are you now,” Draco demanded crossly, “a minstrel?”

“What bollocks is this you’ve cocked up this time?” sang Theo to the tune of _Greensleeves_ , and Draco rolled his eyes. 

“O calamity, thou art a fucking fool,” Theo added, unmelodically.

At precisely that moment, Draco caught an oncoming flash of red.

“Go,” he shot at Theo, panicked, and shoved him away just before Hermione reappeared, storming crimson-cheeked up to his stall.

“You made a candle for me,” she accused, and Draco flinched. So much for not discussing it, then. “What does it mean?”

“I—” Christ, how to explain it. “Granger, listen—”

“Malfoy, it’s precisely the scent of my perfume, my hair!”

“I… is it?” attempted Draco, and she glared at him.

“It would be one thing if you were selling it,” she snapped, “because it’s _lovely_.”

He blinked. “Thank you, I sup-”

“But you’re _not_ selling it!” she barked, and then she stared at him, eyes suddenly wide and wounded. 

Lacking a response, Draco merely spread his hands, helpless. 

“What is it called?” she demanded.

Balls, balls, balls almighty. Calamity, indeed.

“Handfast,” he mumbled, staring at his boots.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then she stomped up to him with fury, taking his face in her hands.

From the start it was explosive, uncannily so, like the first time he kicked off from a broom. Not like catching a snitch, which was victorious and calculated, but more like a clumsy shot up from the ground, legless and unplanned. She hit him like a gust of wind, delivering them both to a shiver. 

When she broke away, one hand flew to her mouth. He stared at her, and she at him.

Then, helpfully, she turned and ran.

* * *

**_22 December 1998_ **

_Maybe we’re only good on the road_ , Ron had said after their last fight. _Funny, isn’t it? How normal life is so much harder._

Hermione fidgeted as Parvati bound her hand with Draco’s, trying not to look at the unmissable clan of gingers in the crowd. Rita Skeeter had written about the faire by then, frothing about “kitschy old-wizardry revival,” so it was probably inevitable that Molly would wrangle her family into attending.

At least Ron had seen the Queen of the Joust before seeing Hermione now, performing an idiotic ceremony in front of the entire faire whilst being tied up with her nemesis. Parvati’s was undoubtedly a favorite show, beloved by even the regulars, but now that Ron frowned up at her, bewildered, Hermione desperately wished that she could run. 

“These are the hands that will love you,” Parvati said, the same tired refrain, and Hermione stifled a sigh of relief. Nearly done, then.

But before the ceremony could end, Draco stepped forward unexpectedly, startling her. She braced herself, uncertain, but he merely bent his head, pausing just as his nose might have brushed hers.

She felt him swallow, hesitating. He was waiting, and after a moment’s pause, she gave him the smallest, tiniest nod.

The corners of his mouth twitched, satisfied.

The kiss, when his lips met hers, was electrifying. Like soaring above a crowd. Like hearing them cry out for her, exuberant and enraptured. She swayed forward a little, hands tightening where they were bound to hers. _Woosh_ , the rest of her life. The whole thing was coming for her.

Regrettably, it ended. He inhaled with half a gulp, like they had just surfaced from drowning, and maybe they had.

Beside them, Parvati turned her head with a smile, earrings jangling.

_Risk and danger. True love’s kiss._

“Tits up!” called Lavender from the crowd, brazenly delighted.

* * *

**_24 December 1998_ **

“All you have to do is say you’re sorry,” said Hermione.

Ah yes, so simple. So easy a fucking fool could do it.

In the end, Draco chose to drop to one knee; a dramatic impulse, inevitable after excess exposure to Theo. A peasant kneeling to a king.

“I apologize,” he said, “sincerely.”

Buckbeak considered him warily, glancing at Hermione. Draco kept his head bent, waiting.

Then, slowly, Buckbeak sank into a graceful bow.

“Look at that,” Hermione remarked, mildly impressed.

The next time he kissed her, Draco told himself he would run the gauntlet. 

Next time, he would be humble and unafraid.

* * *

**_25 December 1998_ **

She happened to know he sold out of candles by mid-afternoon. He was unquestionably the most profitable artisan at the faire, though when she asked how much money he'd made, Theo replied, “Not a farthing, Your Majesty. ‘Tis all donated,” he explained, adding assuringly, “There once was a lad owed a lesson, whose looks were quite pale of complexion. He hath gravely erred and his judgment’s impaired, but he’s rather a good one, I reckon.” 

At the moment, every candle in Draco’s stall was lit with candles newly made, filling the stall with nostalgia: The holiday spices of Hogwarts. The cozy warmth of Gryffindor Tower. The cool breeze off the lake. The underlying hint of her own perfume. The smell of new books, fresh parchment. A bit of grass from the quidditch pitch, her family’s little rose garden. The luster of all her best memories at once.

Draco bowed at her approach, offering his hand.

“What’s this?” she asked, and he glanced up, a silvery strand falling into his eyes in the flickering light of his candles.

“The hand that will love you,” he said. “If you’ll have it.”

 _I was wrong about the faire,_ said Harry, catching her after her final show. _It’s not stupid at all. In fact, I think it’s precisely what you needed._

When Hermione took Draco’s hand, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. Their kiss, once she tugged him into her arms, would be quite a good candle. (Sweet with honeyed wine, a little crisp with flame. Molten with history, new and old.)

“Is that a yes?” he asked when they broke apart.

“Quite,” she said.

“Huzzah,” he murmured.

Then she kissed him again, a risk worth taking, as candlelight danced around their heads.

**Author's Note:**

> I really ran off with my prompt, which was... candles! Thank you to esgeee and musyc of D/Hr Advent for organizing this event, which is always a highlight of my year; to Aurora, for editing; and to those of you who nominated me, for being the absolute best. It is such an honor to participate in the Advent, and I can't thank you enough!


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